


Other

by somegunemojis



Series: Tender Mercies [27]
Category: Original Content
Genre: Enemies to ??????, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26096689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somegunemojis/pseuds/somegunemojis
Summary: The gang that killed his father is populated by individuals he'd almost rather not be familiar with.
Relationships: Bettino Tahan & The Caito Family, Bettino Tahan/Ihab Rahal
Series: Tender Mercies [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893175
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> cw for an anxiety attack

March 2017 -- Verona, Italia

Today, the tremor in his hands is so severe that he can’t even hold a cigarette. Keeping them hidden away in his pockets only solves part of the problem. It hides it, sure– but the shaking travels up his arms, slowly, creeping, until his shoulders twitch and shiver like leaves in the breeze. It’s infuriating. Bettino can’t seem to focus beyond the haze in his brain on anything else, his world narrowed down to the uselessness of his fingers, the helplessness of it all. 

He’s just walking, wandering. Stumbling around for hours in the faint hope that some fresh air, the sight of living people instead of ghosts, and a little bit of exercise might ease the tightness in his chest. It’s not working, to his dismay, but his feet keep restlessly carrying him this way and that, expanding circles in a city he can never get lost in until the day it swallows him whole. 

The voice calling out doesn’t ring like a bell, or chime. There’s a bite to the way she barks out Tahan, like she’s spitting it out, but when he turns to search for her in the crowd her face is blank. She stops a few feet away from him, eyes him from toe to tip, and then continues her approach, more slowly this time. He recognizes the walk– not tentative, but careful. Like he’s a stray dog that might bite. Her hand is steady when she reaches out and grips his shoulder, her fingers strong, and she digs her thumb into the muscle for just a moment. It’s grounding, he finds. He almost leans into it. “Why don’t we find someplace a little quieter?” 

The question pushes his eyebrows up a little, as he looks around at the small crowd. She doesn’t wait for him to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, just keeps her hand where it settled next to his neck and frog marches him to the nearest alley. They stand in total silence for a moment, where Bettino’s gaze flicks from her, to the mouth of the alley, to the open windows above them, back to her, and he finally manages to ask, “Did you need something?” His voice barely comes out as a whisper.

She has the audacity to snort at that, her grip still solid on his shoulder. “Bettino, you’re having an anxiety attack.” His brows furrow, and she reaches out to take his wrist and pull his hand out of his pocket, where it continues to shiver out in open air. He frowns at it, and then frowns at her. “Or something like it, anyway. Can you take a breath?” 

He sucks one in through his teeth, and the rush of air makes him feel lightheaded. Cataline tucks her cool hand against the nape of his neck and pulls him into something like a hug, he supposes, though her sharp angles make it almost unpleasant. Her perfume is expensive enough that it isn’t overpowering, but mostly she just smells like gunmetal. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, his face tucked against her neck, and syncs his shaky breaths to hers. It takes him what seems like forever to gather his thoughts, and get his wind back. 

“Fuck. You’re taller than me. I feel like a child.” It’s easy to notice the minor height discrepancy when she’s got him tucked against her chest like he’s a babe seeking comfort– and really, the embarrassment from the fact that she’s taller than him is easier to fixate on than the embarrassment that comes with being weak and rudderless enough that Cataline DuFrense, the triggerwoman for the Caito with all her clipped words and harsh tones, felt the need to give him a fucking **hug**. Mercifully, she doesn't comment on any of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw PTSD

March, 2019 -- Verona, Italia

The lights… The lights are vibrant. Vibrant and multicolored, sweeping the dance floor, the pit of writing bodies below. He’s leaned against the edge of the balcony so hard that the metal railing is digging uncomfortably into his forearms, hands clasped in the open air above the partygoers as if in prayer. 

He’s painfully sober, so all the flashing lights are doing for him is making him feel lightheaded, vaguely ill. His fingers are curled tightly, the whites of his knuckles jut out from the thin, scarred skin, in an effort to hide the faint tremor, starting at the tips of his fingernails and slowly, painfully, working their way up his arms. It’s hard to think past the static in his brain, which is probably why it takes so long to notice the single, golden tipped talon sliding up his arm, over his shoulder, to where the collar of his shirt hangs just a little bit loose. 

Bettino cocks his head, following the elegant hand settled on his shoulder all the way up the lean, bare arm, up her collarbone, to her face. Laura Falcone. Laura fucking Falcone is scratching faint, vague symbols into the tendons on the side of his neck. He raises an eyebrow at her, silent and still but for the barely-there shaking in his hands. 

She shouts something, he shakes his head, and she pouts before leaning closer and trying again. “You look like you’ve been sucking on a lemon, Be-tti-no.” He finds, briefly, that he does not like the way she enunciates his name. “Do you want to get out of here?” 

His eyes flicker back out to the bright lights, the crowded dance floor. A moment, to wonder how long she’s been watching, whether she’d been looking for him in particular, and to realize that this is a monumentally fucking stupid idea saying yes would be. And then he straightens, politely puts a hand on her waist, and follows her into the cool, dark night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure if they fuck or rob a liquor store together after this. could be both


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happiness is brief. It will not stay. God batters at its sails.  
>  –EURIPIDES

August, 2019 -- Verona, Italia

A summer storm brews that night. The ozone-tang of it is heavy in the air when he sits on the roof and smokes his cigarette, watching the clouds gather on the horizon over the bright lights of the city. Thunder rumbles in the distance, but he’s only driven inside once the fat droplets of rain start to fall, chasing him back into his tiny apartment to shut the windows before any water gets in. A brief search of the flat shows no trace of Pafutta– he’s sure if the old bitch decides she wants to shelter in here from the storm, she’ll let him know some time in the middle of the night by howling and meowing pitifully outside his window. It feels like the temperature has dropped five degrees since the skies opened up, and when he crawls into his bed the sheets are cold enough to make him shiver, despite the heat of the day. 

He isn’t tired, really, so he cracks open his old friend Kropotkin and turns on his lamp to read. The words are just starting to blur together when he hears the floorboards creak in the hallway outside his door. He eyes the gun on his nightstand, but the sounds are familiar enough for him to feel a little too lazy to reach for it. Ihab doesn’t even bother knocking anymore, just lets himself into the apartment in a burst of cool air and a myriad of quiet curses rolling off his tongue. Bettino watches from his bed as the younger man kicks off his shoes, shrugs out of his damp jacket. Shakes the water out of his hair. Ihab doesn’t look at him. 

“Forget your umbrella?” The question is bone-dry, to cover up the amusement. It suits its purpose: Ihab turns to him, prickly and hissing and angry, just in time for Bettino to raise his brow and continue, “It’s raining, you know? The forecast said it would.” 

Ihab reels back as though he was struck, and narrows his eyes like he plans to murder him right here and now. But he catches himself, smooths his hair back with long fingers and unbuttons his shirt, tossing it over the back of the kitchen chair. His pants follow suit. “Only housewives check the weather, _omri._ ” Bettino laughs at that, and the laugh turns into a displeased hiss when Ihab crawls into bed with him, his damp skin clammy from the heavy rainfall. 

“Fuck. How are your socks wet, were you wandering around out there since it started?” He squirms, and Ihab vengefully presses his damp, socked feet to his calves, and sticks his for once cold fingers to his abdomen, smirking all the while. Sensing quickly that this is not a battle he’s going to win, Bettino stills, and mutters, “at least take the damn things off. You’re going to get the sheets wet, and we’ll be miserable all night.” 

The process of sock removal takes only a moment, and then he’s back, pressing his cooled, damp fingers against Bettino's ribs under his thin shirt. “I can think of better ways to make you miserable all night–” He’s already heating back up rapidly, leaving the air around him heavy, and humid. Ihab throws a leg over him and then slides along to follow until he’s seated across his hips. Bettino settles his hands on his thighs and watches him quietly, something warm and poorly hidden curling in his expression. Ihab eyes him, and pulls his hands out from under his shirt to settle them on either side of his face. His thumbs settle neatly over Bettino’s cheekbones, and then gently they trace over his brows, over his eyelids. Something painful twists in his chest at the contact. His fingers follow along after, each careful trail left in their wake leaving the nerves lit up, buzzing. Ihab’s hands settle carefully against his jaw, and then he leans down and presses his lips to Bettino’s, a contented noise slipping out of his mouth at the contact. It makes the corner of his mouth twitch. 

“You and I might have very different definitions of miserable, then.” Bettino’s hands trail up his thighs, around his hips, to trace up his back, every shift of lean muscle and bump of his spine vivid under his palms. He kisses him again. A warm sigh rolls out of him through his nose, and Bettino can feel the other man’s lips purse as he tries not to smile into it. He pulls away a centimetre, for just a breath, and then leaves a long kiss at the corner of his mouth, another one on his jaw, this one slightly open-mouthed. As he works his way down his throat, the kisses become a little meaner, more teeth, more tongue, leaving his heart racing in his throat until halfway down, Ihab sinks his teeth into the tendon midway down his neck. Bettino threads his fingers through his hair at the back of his head and tightens his grip with a muffled groan, pulling his face away until he can see Ihab’s eyes, dark with lust, and his smug little grin, perfectly white, sharp little teeth bared by the deceptively soft-looking lips. “What did I say about biting above the collar?” Ihab doesn’t reply– not verbally, at least. Instead he just rolls his eyes, pulls a little against the grip on his hair, and lazily rocks his hips with a soft sigh. 

Bettino’s grip slackens, his body lit up, and Ihab takes the opportunity to lean down to press his lips to the cool skin just next to the collar of his shirt. His fingers slide under the fabric once more, pushing it up his chest, and Bettino sits up on an elbow with a quiet laugh, watching Ihab leave little love bites down his torso with his mean, perfect mouth. His other hand never leaves its place on the back of Ihab’s skull, tangled in his hair like it’s a lifeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ends in a blowjob for sure but the world isn't ready for that conversation


End file.
